


Burned By The Light

by Fenris



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Angst, M/M, Retcon/Missing scenes, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenris/pseuds/Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is a missing scenes/retcon concerning the flashbacks in the FK episode "Sons of Belial".  The question has arisen more than once of just exactly how our capable fanged heroes could have gotten themselves bagged by the Inquisition "while they slept".  This is my take on one possible explanation, and on the actual flashback itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burned By The Light

They fed upon a group of drunken young bravos who, in their brandy soaked giddiness and high spirited viciousness had marked the two foppish looking men who carried no swords as easy prey. Their end had come with blinding, snarling swiftness. Besotted with the thrill of the fight and the fierce young mens' blood, Lacroix and Nicholas had not stopped with one apiece but had drained them all, all six of them, in a whirl of gleaming sulfur eyes and flashing, bloodstained teeth.

Glutted on brandy-laced blood, the two vampires wove a slightly wobbly course down a narrow side street, still managing to side-step the piles of garbage and offal that littered the street and sidewalks. Arms around each other's waists, they reeled to a stop. Nicholas was laughing, looking up into Lacroix' chuckling face.

"Phew! This street is noisome. Can't we go somewhere less fragrant?" Nicholas said, looking at the filth in the gutter. "Why are we on this street, anyway?"

Lacroix looked around, still chuckling a bit. He furrowed his brows and looked around again, falling silent. Then he looked at Nicholas and his expression sobered. He lowered his face slowly until his nose was barely a quarter inch from his companion's and drew in a deep breath, his eyes holding Nicholas' steadily with a dark, serious gaze. Nicholas' smile began to fade a bit. Lacroix whispered in a somber tone,

"We're lost."

Nicholas stared at him for a moment, face blank, then he burst out laughing. Lacroix began to laugh as well, and their mirth echoed down the grimy side street, causing the sleeping occupants of the buildings to stir uneasily in their slumber. A few woke to listen to the feral laughter, crossed themselves and burrowed down into their bedding, praying to the Virgin to see them safe to morning.

Lacroix was pleased at how fastidious Nicholas had become. When he had first brought the young Crusader over he had subscribed to the abominable rules of personal hygiene that were standard in his day. It had been a real struggle to teach him simply to keep himself personable, and to convince him that a daily bath was a pleasure, not an unnatural risk to one's health.

The elder vampire abhorred filth, and deplored how badly standards of cleanliness had fallen in the centuries since he had walked the broad streets of Pompeii in the light of day. Unfortunately he abhorred living away from civilization even more, which meant he had to put up with the reprehensible modern standards of the populace in this wise.

"Well, where's our street? It's gone! It left! " Nicholas looked around, still grinning but looking a bit bewildered. Lacroix looked at him and couldn't help laughing at his son's blank expression. Nicholas tried his best to level a glower at his master, but ruined the effect by stumbling into him and bursting into laughter again. Hanging onto Lacroix' shoulders, he tipped his head back and drew in a deep breath, eyes shut.

"Oh, I am drunk..."

Lacroix watched Nicholas through half-closed eyes, enjoying the sight of his dearest child so abandoned to his nature, so filled with glee. If only things could be like this more often...there was no better company he could wish for than Nicholas in a good mood. More and more of late, he feared that Nicholas' well-nursed black humors, his festering guilt and conscience would be the end of him someday. Lacroix was beginning to feel at something of a loss to know how to remedy this.

Nicholas stirred, and Lacroix' attention was brought back to the matter at hand. He regarded Nicholas, who was now leaning all his weight against the old vampire, arms lying loosely around his neck. His eyes were still shut, and Lacroix wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep on his feet. Nicholas' throat was temptingly close, skin bared, his ornamental ruff lost sometime during their feast. Pale champagne threads began to seep into Lacroix' pale blue eyes, deepening to hot gold. The full lips parted slightly, and he felt his eyeteeth begin to grow as he drew in Nicholas' scent, the slow pulse beating under the skin of his throat, so close. All he had to do was to incline his head, just a bit, just so...

Nicholas came to life suddenly, placed his hand over Lacroix' face and gave a mighty push that sent his master stumbling back, fetching up against an ornate wrought iron gate. Lacroix stared at him in amazement, then growled. Nicholas laughed into the angry face and spread his arms wide.

"Chase me for it." He sprang into the air and was gone.

Lacroix leaped, and took to the air. As he left the narrow street behind he took in a deep breath of the cleaner, cooler air above the streets. It cleared his head somewhat. Rising above the rooftops he paused, listening, every sense alert, his blood singing within him. His Nicholas wanted to play. This was what their life was meant to be, this revel, a glorious hunt followed by the wild playfulness of well-fed predators.

Nicholas hovered in the air not twenty feet away, eyes gold embers in the moonlight. As Lacroix' gaze met his, he bared sharp teeth in a grin, hissed a challenge to his master and fled.

Agile as swallows, they darted through archways, around tall chimneys, under a massive granite abutment, one rough stone corner brushing Lacroix' short-cropped hair as he flashed around it pressing his speed, intent on the glimpses of pale hair and skin that revealed the course of his prey. He was rather surprised that Nicholas hadn't yet knocked himself senseless against a wall or chimney; in truth, he was a bit surprised that he hadn't dashed his own brains out yet.

The central square of Madrid was ringed by large stone buildings, ornate and old. Lacroix saw Nicholas land on an arched buttress, stagger for a second, then wheel and flash a grin at his approaching master. Then he dropped down from the buttress and disappeared into the darkness behind it. Lacroix landed where Nicholas had been moments earlier and stood still. He closed his eyes as drunken dizziness caught up to him, no longer kept at bay by the ferocious concentration needed for pursuit. Reeling a bit, he sank down into a crouch, fingertips pressed against the smooth stone to steady himself.

The vertigo passed, and he opened his eyes again, smiling. Now, where was his chase-me lad hiding? Lacroix knew he was somewhere on the roof of the enormous stone structure. As if to answer his thought, a low growl floated out of the shadows, pulling an answering rumble from the old vampire's throat. Evidently Nicholas had not tired of playing yet. Lacroix wanted to throw his head back and laugh, shout his gratitude to the band of young firebrands who had unwillingly fueled this rare abandon in his beloved protege. Instead, he dropped down from the arch, silent as falling ash, and disappeared into the shadows.

They stalked each other over the complex rooftop, taking advantage of every steep gable and massive carved adornment to conceal themselves. Lacroix had closed off his link to Nicholas, confident that he would be aware of it if his son tried to use their connection to locate him. He stopped and held still, listening. Enjoyable as this was, his need to see and touch Nicholas was beginning to take precedence over this game of hide and seek. Perhaps he could lure his son out.

Placing every ounce of seductiveness he could into his beautiful rich voice, Lacroix spoke to the shadows around him.

"Nicholas," he crooned, " are we going to play this game until sunrise, mon cher? I can think of better pursuits for us to follow." He paused, eyes slitted, running the tip of his tongue thoughtfully along the edges of his teeth. No answer, no sound to indicate Nicholas' whereabouts.

Cocking his head to one side, Lacroix considered what he could say next to successfully toll his creation into arm's reach.

Lacroix's next comment, considerably less witty then the one he'd planned to make, was "Oof!," as Nicholas tackled him flat and all the air went out of his lungs in a single whoosh. He found himself on his stomach, Nicholas straddling his waist, pressing him into the cold stone. As he growled and started to draw his arms under him to rise up and toss his rambunctious son on his head, Nicholas' weight settled down along his back and a low amused voice whispered in his ear.

"Like what, Grandfather?" The statement was punctuated by the tip of Nicholas' hot tongue running along his neck, ending with a light nip at his earlobe. Lacroix shifted, suddenly disarmed, drew in a deep breath and flexed his sharp nails against the smooth granite, scoring faint marks in the gray stone.

He was going to have to search out groups of drunken idiots and bullies more often when they hunted.

Nicholas squirmed against him, licked the back of his neck and ran his tongue around to his other ear. One hand reached around to caress his throat, while the other one strayed to his waist, seeking a way under his light doublet.

Oh, yes, most definitely more often, he thought, closing his eyes with a sigh of pleasure.

Lacroix' initial intention, to simply get purchase under him with his arms and fling Nicholas off headlong, changed. Slowly he drew his arms in under him, uttering a soft moan as Nicholas flicked his tongue against the sensitive side of his neck and nipped him lightly again, just under the ear this time. He pushed up slowly, arching his spine like a stretching cat, for a moment raising Nicholas up in the air astride his back like a child playing horseback, powerful thighs tight around his waist. Then the younger vampire slid off to one side, chuckling, his arms locked around Lacroix' neck. Hauling his master to him, he placed a loud, smacking kiss against the side of the patrician face, then made as if to bite Lacroix' ear again.

Lacroix turned as he did and finally trapped his impudent son in his own arms. He found himself nose to nose with his protege, Nicholas' eyes feverish with glee, his beautiful face flushed with temporary warmth. His skin was warm too, and Lacroix slipped his hands inside the torn shirtneck to glide over silky young skin covering hard muscles. Nicholas exhaled slowly, his arms tightening around Lacroix' shoulders as his master leaned in for a taste of the warm skin over his collarbone. Lacroix felt the younger vampire shudder as he slid his tongue along the ridge of bone, stopping to idle in the hollow of the fine throat.

After a minute of this, Nicholas voiced a soft growl and angled his head around so he could apply himself similarly to his master, exploring his ear, then traveling downward.

Lacroix' eyes glittered pale topaz washed over with silver as he tilted his face up toward the moon, allowing Nicholas better access to his throat. Although he did not really need the extra air, his breath was beginning to come faster, one reaction unchanged over the ages. The glow in his eyes deepened from topaz to ocher, and he drew in a sharp breath as Nicholas' hand swept down over his flank and came up to press boldly against his groin, gently squeezing the hardness concealed beneath the layers of cloth. Lacroix reached out and hooked one hand into the ruined collar of Nicholas' shirt, tearing slowly down, the fine linen parting with a purring rip, exposing the marvelously fine chest, its hard rolling muscles preserved forever at their peak.

Lowering his head, he licked the smooth chest, tasting just enough of Nicholas in the blood sweat that had broken out across the flushed skin to tip him completely over into arousal. Nicholas' gasps as he teased a pale nipple with his teeth made him ache pleasantly. He pressed his groin into Nicholas' questing hand, rewarding his son with a soft cry of pleasure as the hand finally succeeded in loosening his clothing, slipped into his trousers and closed around his hard shaft. Nicholas' hand moved firmly, alternating stroking up and down with an occasional gentle squeeze.

So bold tonight, Lacroix thought, shuddering with delight as the hand moved, fingers exploring. Then Nicholas brought his other hand to the back of his neck and covered his mouth with his. His tongue slicked across Lacroix' teeth before reaching further in, exploring his creator's mouth, his motions urgent, almost frantic. Lacroix found himself responding with equal fervor, lost himself in savoring his son's unique taste, spiced tonight with fierce heat and the taste of fine brandy.

Nicholas pulled back, then leaned forward again to whisper the three words into the old vampire's ear that completely undid him on the rare occasions that they were spoken.

"I love you," the low urgent voice said in his ear, then the lips were back upon his before he could utter a response.

This most effective weapon in his son's arsenal against him was made infinitely more powerful by the fact that Lacroix knew Nicholas had no inkling of what those words, or moments like these, did to his flint-hard soul. He also knew that the words came straight from Nicholas' innermost heart, devoid of any deception.

The balance of their clothing was hastily shed, and they lay down on the jumbled pile of clothes embracing, both reveling in the feel of the other's skin held hard against him. They began kissing and moving together, eager hands suddenly everywhere at once, as the barrier that came down between them so tragically seldom crumbled and they set aside the enduring struggle between them for control and began to make love.

Lacroix worked his way down the marvelous body, fingers kneading, tongue darting out and tasting as he went. He lingered for a minute at Nicholas' belly, languorously exploring his navel, then swirling his tongue down to the top of the nest of crisp dark blonde curls and lingered there. Nicholas shuddered and strained against him, hips moving of their own volition. Lacroix felt hands at his head, gently pushing him down in a silent plea.

Taking a pinch of tender skin between his teeth, he nipped at the taut abdomen, not quite breaking the skin, before he allowed Nicholas to guide his head down to the straining groin.

Delicately, as if tasting some new confection for the first time, he merely tasted, touching here and there, darting the tip of his tongue against the intoxicatingly hard flesh. He curled one hand around the hard shaft, pausing to simply feel the pulse inside, the power held concentrated in that one bit of proud flesh, then moved his thumb across the top, spreading the slick droplets that wept from the cleft in the iron hard tip. Nicholas squirmed as he did, breath coming faster and faster until Lacroix heard him choke on a near sob.

Lacroix dipped his head down, took one last swipe with the tip of his tongue across the slick head, then took Nicholas completely into his mouth, lips sliding down until the harsh curls tickled against them, and began to apply himself in earnest. He moved so that his weight held Nicholas' legs down as his son began to cry out and writhe around so that his ancient lover could barely keep him in his mouth. Pinning the restless hips against the cool stone, he slowed his ministrations to give his captive a short respite.

Nicholas' hands came down to caress his head as he did, and the feel of the large strong hands running over his temples, his neck, the back of his head, fingertips massaging his scalp made Lacroix groan. Nicholas shuddered as the vibrations transmitted themselves from the clever mouth to his achingly hard cock.

"Please, Lacroix." Unable to resist a tease, Lacroix left his ministrations, one stroking hand keeping his place for him, and rose up to kiss Nicholas deeply, drinking in the delicious tension there. He whispered against the trembling lips,

"Please what, Nicholas? What do you want?" His amber eyes smiled into Nicholas' fiery gaze. Usually the next step took a few more minutes of teasing, of bringing Nicholas up to a level of arousal that was near torture before his son would finally gasp out his request, embarrassment and resistance burned away by need. He tensed in surprise when Nicholas' hands grabbed his head roughly and he felt hot, moist lips against his ear as Nicholas whispered, his voice harsh.

"Fuck me. Fuck me blind. Now. Please...".

The demand was punctuated by sharp teeth piercing his earlobe through. Eager lips sucked greedily at the few drops of blood that squeezed out in the seconds before the tiny wound closed.

Barely able to contain his glee and the explosive rush of arousal the words and motion engendered within him, Lacroix murmured against the pulse hammering in Nicholas' throat.

"Mmm, since you ask so nicely, amant," he paused, lifting his head for a look into the feral golden eyes, "anything you want."

Nicholas smiled triumphantly, then reached down to take firm hold of Lacroix. Breath caught in the elder vampire's throat and he forced himself to hold still, trembling a bit as Nicholas' hand slid over his erection, smoothing the slick moisture seeping from the tip over the rest of it to ease his entry. Then Nicholas lay back, lips parted, eyes glittering as Lacroix slid his hands under his buttocks, raising him up to hastily shove some of their bundled clothing underneath him to support his hips at the best angle. He fancied that he could actually feel the heat of Nicholas' gaze on him as he maneuvered himself into position, hands grasping the slender hips to hold them in place.

As he began to press inward, Nicholas groaned and reached over his head, hands finding and grasping his much-abused shirt, his fingers twisting into the fine fabric. Lacroix thrust in and sheathed himself, near fainting with pleasure as he did. Nicholas' hard length rubbed against his stomach, its touch burning his skin. Nicholas whimpered and moved himself against his master, then wrapped his legs around the hard muscled torso and pulled him in hard, eliciting a sharp gasp from Lacroix.

"Please, Lacroix. Please, touch me. Ahh..."

He broke off as long, slender fingers that could crush bone with no effort closed around his twitching shaft and began to gently stroke in time with Lacroix' increasing thrusts, while the other hand remained at his hip, holding him steady. His hands clenched and ripped the shirt in half like a dry leaf and continued to shred the white cloth as Lacroix worked him, their bond waking and braiding the threads of their nerves together.

Nicholas cried out and Lacroix froze in mid-thrust, studying his son's face. Nicholas opened his eyes wide and groaned in frustration when he saw the smug expression in the gold-shot eyes regarding him. Lacroix smiled down into his protege's face.

Lacroix was very, very good at this. He'd been considered good at this when he was still mortal: after fifteen hundred-odd years of practice, his skill was frightening. It was one of his favorite techniques with Nicholas, bringing him up to this point, stopping, letting him build up tension, then starting again, only to repeat the cycle until Nicholas was begging and wild enough to satisfy Lacroix' own needs. He brushed his fingertips across Nicholas' mouth, licking his own full lips as he did. Their bond was fully open now, and he was momentarily lost in savoring Nicholas' pleasure, his son's desperate need for relief.

Nicholas wasn't having any more teases tonight, though. In an eyeblink he captured Lacroix' index finger in his mouth, his eyes never leaving Lacroix', and began to suckle the finger, flicking his tongue against it, teeth sharp against the skin, but not piercing it. As his master drew in a deep breath, Nicholas began to move his hips, using his inner muscles to stroke and squeeze the hard shaft inside him: then he bit down, sinking one fang deep into the base of Lacroix' finger.

Lacroix snarled, driven smartly out of control by the simultaneous caresses and the sharp bite. Throwing his head back, he gave a loud cry, eyes flaming, teeth extended, then struck at Nicholas' ready throat, thrusting uncontrollably into his writhing lover. As his teeth pierced the base of Nicholas' neck, Lacroix felt fangs sinking into his own shoulder, and the two vampires convulsed, seized by the overwhelming dual pleasure of the bite and their imminent orgasms.

Fiery blood coursed into Lacroix' mouth, blinding him with the ecstatic pleasure he tasted there, flowed through his own body then out again into the demanding pull of Nicholas' mouth, the flowing, living tide bonding them more closely together than ever before. Each felt what the other felt, and the doubling and redoubling of pleasure threatened to overwhelm them both. They clung fiercely together, no longer two distinct beings, but one creature completely possessed by a seizure of ecstasy as the first waves of orgasm broke through them.

Blood spattered black in the moonlight as they let go of each other's throats to scream, mouths awash with burning liqueur. The wild sound reverberated across the rooftop, sending roosting doves into hysterical flight, drawing answering howls from dogs in the empty square below.

They remained locked together, faces buried in each other's necks. Occasional shudders ran through them, but otherwise they were still, feeding upon each other more quietly now. The only other movement on the roof was caused by the night breeze which had picked up in strength and was blowing Nicholas' long, disheveled hair about a bit.

The moon was noticeably lower when they finally disengaged and regarded each other, both more shaken then either one wished to admit.

****

They climbed up on a decorative cornice overlooking the moonlit main square. Lacroix settled his back against the base of one of the massive gargoyles and moved to give Nicholas room to settle down in front of him, pulling him back gently between his long legs to lie against his chest. Nicholas grasped one of Lacroix' hands and pulled it around himself to rest comfortably against his stomach and wrapped his other arm around the old vampire's hard-muscled thigh, fingertips idly caressing the hollow behind his knee. The fierce high spirited aggression ingested from their intoxicated prey had burned most of itself out in their chase and their wild coupling after. What was left now was a comfortable floating languor.

They presented a eldritch, beautiful tableau in the silvered light, nestled beneath the stone sculpture, pale serene faces warmed only by the smoldering yellow light gleaming in their eyes.

It was a rare moment of utter contentment for Lacroix, and he closed his eyes for a moment to store away the memory of it against what he knew would be Nicholas' likely reaction after the last of this intoxicant mood wore off. Lacroix was fully aware that Nicholas would probably begin regretting his abandon within hours after getting over the last effects of tonight's excesses.

But as long as he received these occasional glimpses of the bright exuberance, the spirit, the deep devotion that Nicholas was capable of when he let himself be, it was enough to see him through the dark moods and recriminations, agonizing over things he could not change; all of the things that marked Nicholas' usual state of mind.

'Sooner or later he will come to his senses', mused Lacroix. 'This cannot last forever. I can wait. And, when he does come into his own, then what a companion for the ages he will be! Together we will be unequaled.'

 

They stayed in comfortable silence for a while, then Nicholas turned his head to peer sidelong up at his master's face, asking,

"How much longer do you think Janette will wish to stay here?"

Lacroix tilted his head, considering, idly twirling a lock of his son's long blonde hair around a finger as he did.

"I've no idea, Nicholas. It's my impression that she intends to play with this one for a while. At least while he continues to shower her with jewels and those Spanish lace-trimmed confections she's gotten so fond of. You know Janette, mon fils. She's very good at this sort of thing, and she enjoys it greatly. It is her special brand of hunting."

Nicholas snorted and waved a hand dismissively, but dropped the subject. Lacroix, who knew Nicholas missed his impish coquette of a sister, smiled. He recognized an attempt to sound him out on whether or not he might be persuaded to encourage Janette to end her play-acting and come away with them. But Janette would follow her own course and he was content to let her, for the most part. Janette did love Nicholas, as he was well aware, and even bore Lacroix some small measure of love mingled with the great respect and gratitude she had for him.

But Janette's heart had its own agenda, and Lacroix very much doubted that agenda would ultimately have anything to do with either himself or Nicholas. Whatever the true motives were that drove his lovely fierce kestrel of a daughter remained her own secrets. Which Lacroix was content to have so. As long as he commanded her loyalty and respect, her obedience, and some small measure of affection he was content. It was so with the rest of his children as well. Nicholas was the only creature who inspired in him the compulsion to know everything about him, to be completely and utterly aware of what went on behind the mercurial blue eyes.

As far as Nicholas' motives went; well, when it came to understanding his own drives, his own feelings, he knew that Nicholas was no more aware of the true nature of his own heart than he was of what might live upon the moon. Hopefully time would remedy that problem. He closed his eyes and let himself float as the moon overhead continued its endless course through starry blackness and tarnished pewter clouds.

His senses told him that dawn was not far off. He stirred, sighing. Nicholas took in a deep breath, and squeezed Lacroix' hand, muttering,

"It's time to be away."

"Mmm." Lacroix nodded in reluctant agreement. Nicholas rose to his feet in a smooth easy motion and held his hand down to give his master an affectionate, though unneeded, hand to his feet. They embraced once more, briefly, then made their way back across the roof to retrieve their scattered clothing. Their garments were in a sorry state, and Lacroix laughed as he watched Nicholas attempting to somehow close the shredded front of his linen shirt.

"Give it up, mon cher. It's breathed its last. Luckily for us we have our cloaks, so we won't present too much of a spectacle to any early risers."

His own clothes, though looking a bit mangy now, were less damaged and he reckoned that he would pass muster from a casual look by lantern light.

Lacroix raised his head as if scenting the air, then scooped up Nicholas' cloak and tossed it at him.

"We're cutting it a bit finer than I care to, Nicholas. Come." He rose up into the air and hesitated, looking down at his protege, who was wrapping his dark brown wool cloak around himself. "Nicholas?"

"All right, I'm coming! For a man who counsels me to patience so often, you should set me a better example." Grinning and golden-eyed, Nicholas flew up beside Lacroix, grabbed a fistful of black military cloak and hauled him sharply backwards, then darted away, gaining a starting lead on his master. Lacroix regained his equilibrium within seconds, snorted a laugh and sped off after his impossible son.

It did not take long to get to their street. Nicholas landed on one of the roofs that overlooked it and peered down into the narrow cobbled lane. Lacroix landed beside him, sank into a crouch and gave the street a quick once over. No one was in sight, and Lacroix stood back up, ready to step off the roof and descend, when he paused. Then he began to chuckle softly. Nicholas looked at him, an eyebrow raised. Lacroix flashed a rare full grin at him and pointed down at the street.

"Nicholas. Does that look familiar?" Nicholas frowned at his master.

"Are you all right, Lacroix? Of course it's familiar, we've been living here for two months." Then he took a closer look where Lacroix was pointing and began to laugh, recognizing the ornate iron latticework against which he had pushed his astounded master earlier that night. He grinned at his companion, who inclined his head and said dryly,

"It's been a long time, Nicholas, since I was too drunk to recognize my own street. A memorable night."

Nicholas was still laughing as they touched down to the cobbles and began to make their way to the front gate of the tiny house they were renting.

****

Lacroix could feel the light rising in the eastern sky before he looked up and saw the deep indigo that presaged the first rays of the sun. They had cut it close indeed, but their door was within sight.

As they passed the rag seller who habitually pitched his camp in an alley several houses down from theirs, Lacroix noticed that the man was already up and moving about. Nicholas left Lacroix' side for a moment, fished in his purse and tossed a coin to the man, smiling.

"You're up early today, friend," he said, "Such industry deserves reward. There, now we've both had a good night!" He walked on, catching up to Lacroix in a couple of steps and threaded his left hand behind the crook of his master's elbow and into the arm opening of Lacroix' long military cloak. At the old vampire's sidelong look he said,

"My hands are cold," with an impish expression that Janette would have been proud of, and slipped his other hand into Lacroix' cloak as well.

Bartolome reached out to retrieve the gold coin with trembling hands as the two men walked on. He looked up after them and at the same moment the taller man turned and looked back at him. As their gazes met, Bartolome felt his bowels turn to water, his strength deserting him as he looked into the pale cold eyes. The smile on the patrician features faded, and awful eyes focused on the rag seller, a bleached-bone gaze that spoke of deepest winter, black ice, and Bartolome's death.

Bartolome closed his eyes and prayed. The expected blow did not come, and he opened his eyes to see the older man walking away, dragged along by the handsome young one who spoke impatiently to his companion.

"Why are you so slow, old man? Come on!" As Bartolome watched, his heart numb, the demon and his companion made their way up the street and turned into the short walkway of the house he knew they were living in. They paused in the doorway. The young man said something in the other's ear which made him laugh, then he hooked both hands into the tall man's doublet and pulled him through the doorway.

Bartolome remained in the alley, unmoving, until the first rays of the sun warmed his legs. Then he scrambled to his feet, wrapping the gold piece in a blackened rag as he did, stuffed it into a pocket and ran.

The front hall of the house was dark and smelled faintly of cloves and anise, the scent left behind by their housekeeper, Marielena. Nicholas had hired the woman to come in once a week to clean the tiny house.

Shortly after Marielena began, she had offered her services as a cook to the two wealthy Frenchmen, extolling the virtues of her fine pastries, sure to delight any palate; even los frances fino, the discerning French. She had been somewhat taken aback by the laughter her offer had engendered. Their mirth had been followed up by a gratifyingly polite and gracious refusal as the two gentlemen explained to her that they followed a very strict and particular dietary regimen which allowed for no ordinary sweets.

Lacroix had wondered aloud to Nicholas a few times since then if the spices she constantly worked with had penetrated her skin to scent her blood as well. Nicholas was not entirely comfortable with the joke, having grown somewhat fond of the stocky, cheerful woman. Lacroix benignly assured Nicholas that he needn't worry-good housekeepers were hard to come by, and good housekeepers who minded their own business and smelled nice into the bargain were even rarer.

The bedroom they shared was pitch dark, well shielded from the sun's rays by wood and heavy drapes. Lacroix lit a small lantern, giving their vampiric eyes plenty of illumination to see by, and was surprised to find himself yawning.

Nicholas gave one last rueful look at the remains of one of his favorite shirts, then grinned and tossed it over his shoulder to the floor. His trousers quickly followed. Lacroix dropped his cloak to the floor, then shed his doublet and shirt, glad to be out of them.

Feeling a bit dizzy again, he went and stood in the doorway, leaning his head against the doorjamb. He was tired and his head was still unclear--but he was also running the picture of the ragpicker in the alley past his inner eye. At the time it had not seemed so important; sunrise had been imminent and Nicholas had been fondling him in a most distracting manner before dragging him along...damn. He was reasonably sure that the noxious flea feast must have seen _something_ to put that look of glazed terror in his eyes, which Lacroix was now more sure about having seen.

He sighed. The charming little house was no longer safe. He supposed that in a way it was just as well. To be honest, he was glad for the excuse to leave. He was tired of this city; the filth, the crowded conditions, and the damned priests that seemed to be everywhere. They would leave tonight, as soon as the sun was down.

Deep in thought, he rubbed a thumbnail against his full lower lip. Perhaps he should risk a light scorching, go back to the alley and break the man's neck right now, just to put his own mind at ease. Or, he supposed, he could simply influence him to forget… No, he decided, that wouldn't do. He wouldn't have time to stay and assure himself that the man wasn't resistant to their mesmerism. Better to just kill him and be sure. One dead rag seller, hardly to be noticed in a city this size. Nicholas would be upset about it, though. And sunlight was now streaming down in the street outside…

Fingernails traced a light path down his spine and he started. Nicholas was looking at him, curious, his expression a bit concerned.

"Lacroix? Is something wrong?" Lacroix looked into the blue eyes, a hint of worry beginning to show in them, and shook his head with a smile.

"Non, mon Nicholas. C'est rien, nothing's wrong. Except for you having worn me out, that is." The smile returned to Nicholas' face. Lacroix allowed himself to be led away from the door and suffered being undressed the rest of the way with elaborate, still somewhat drunken care by his son. He pushed the matter of the ragpicker to the back of his mind. The chances were next to nil that the man would pluck up the courage to try anything within the next twelve hours, alone or with help. And if the slim chance occurred that he did, it would simply be a matter of travel refreshments delivering themselves to their door. As soon as the sun was down, they and their few belongings would leave Madrid. He would send word to Janette from their next stop as to their whereabouts and she could join them when her play here was done.

Lacroix stretched out on the bed, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. A smile came to his lips as he inhaled the pleasant scent of pennyroyal mixed with fleabane and other herbs. He had instructed Marielena to mingle the blend of dried herbs with the fresh mattress stuffing when she changed it once a week, to keep it free from vermin.

The heady effects of overfeeding on intoxicated adrenaline-charged blood were finally fading away, leaving him enervated and a little bit nauseous. Closing his eyes, he waited for the feeling to pass, listening as Nicholas moved about the room, then walked out into the hall.

Unable to leave it alone, Lacroix considered for a moment the idea that the wretch in the alley might report what he'd seen to the Church. In these dangerous days of the Inquisition, though, such people might still hold faith in their God but were rightly terrified of the Church itself and the men who ran the entire business. He shook his head, dismissing the idea and opened his eyes to admire Nicholas as he reentered the room, moving like some sinuous graceful dream.

It did not occur to Lacroix that what the man had seen might have been even more terrifying to him than the Church.

Nicholas blew out the lantern and crawled onto the bed, eyes faintly phosphorescent in the darkness. Like some sentient vine he twined himself around his master, finding the other's mouth unerringly in the darkness. Lacroix stirred as the silky lips brushed his. The lips returned to linger, and the tip of Nicholas' tongue gently traced the outline of his mouth. Not willing to move just yet, he merely parted his own lips and allowed his son access.

The invitation was accepted and Nicholas began to gently probe, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth, then along his teeth, purring as he felt Lacroix' eyeteeth begin to sharpen and swell. When he deliberately pricked his tongue on Lacroix' fang, the old vampire shuddered and moved at last, sliding his arms around Nicholas while he savored the sweet coppery tang of the few drops that bled from his lover's tongue before the tiny wound closed.

Nicholas lay on top of him and they kissed and caressed each other in the darkness, hands gliding over the contours of well-known territory. Lacroix deepened their kiss, slid his own tongue into Nicholas' mouth and brought one hand up to cradle the back of his head, fingers sliding through long strands of silk. He felt Nicholas' strong response hard against his thigh, and felt his own arousal growing, driving back his fatigue. Pulling back from the eager mouth, he whispered against his son's lips as they earnestly tried to reunite with his own,

"Hm. I don't believe I'm sleepy yet, after all. We do have all day to recover. Another hour or two won't make much of a difference-"

"Lacroix."

"Nicholas?"

"Please stop talking."

Lacroix smiled, unseen in the darkness, and drew Nicholas' mouth back to his.

An hour later they were deeply, soundly asleep, limbs intertwined, Nicholas' head tucked firmly under Lacroix' chin. Each moved in strange and powerful dreams that ran intertwined as well.

 

Father Salzillo looked at the warden in the doorway and frowned.

"What is it, Stefano? I don't wish to be disturbed." It was a dismissal. After a few moments passed and Stefano had not gone, he looked up again, dark brows drawn together under his thick iron-gray hair, glaring. Stefano moved uncomfortably, looking embarrassed.

"Father. Forgive me, but…I think you should listen to this man's story."

"What man?" Salzillo snapped.

"He is waiting for you out in the hall. He's only a rag seller, from a street near the Place de la Mena, but…I think you should hear him, Father."

****

"Father, they are demons! I saw it myself this morning, as they returned from the devil's Sabbath. May our gentle Lord strike me dead on the spot if I lie, if I--if you think it's wine that speaks!"

Bartolome trembled under the priest's severe gaze. He was well aware that this could turn upon him and place him in the dungeons awaiting the rack if he could not convince Father Salzillo of the truth.

"They flew down from the sky laughing with the devil's own humor. They had not regained their mortal faces when they came, the tall one still had the teeth of a wolf, and, and, the yellow eyes of a wolf. Yet I saw him two evenings ago on the street and he spoke and seemed as any lord would, his face--it was fair, indeed noble. His young companion was also fair, mild as any lad from the Basque countryside, but I saw this morning that he, too, had wolves' teeth in his mouth. He gave me this."

Bartolome pulled the gold coin, still wrapped in a scrap of cloth, from his frayed pocket and held it out to the priest with a trembling hand.

"Here, father, I beg you, take it. It is money from the Devil's hand. I do not dare to keep it."

This, more than anything else, convinced Father Salzillo that this mendicant was telling the truth, at least the truth as he believed it to be. No man like this would give up what probably equaled two months' earnings for the sake of spite toward a neighbor. The man was truly afraid to keep the coin.

Salzillo believed in the existence of the Devil and his servants, and believed that they were in a constant war against the demons of Hell who walked the earth in an endless quest for human souls. He also knew in his heart that not one in a hundred of the doomed wretches they dragged in here had any more real acquaintance with the Devil than his left shoe buckle. He made a decision.

"Stefano, gather a dozen men of the Church guard. Make sure they're well armed and have them wait for me in the front courtyard. You will come too. Let us see what we have living by the Place de la Mena."

****

Lacroix awoke to several pairs of gauntleted hands grabbing him roughly by the arms and legs. Still groggy with too much blood, he rounded with a growl and grasped one of the arms. Bones cracked and a thin scream came from one of his attackers. Snarling satisfaction, he reached for one of the other men and felt the bed shift as Nicholas awoke and launched himself at several other uninvited guests.

Poisonous, fiery pain splashed across his chest and shoulders and he howled, flinging himself backwards to avoid a second acid splash of holy water. It splattered Nicholas, who cried out and spun to stare, wide-eyed, at the priest who held a large crucifix in one trembling hand and was fumbling another container of holy water out of his robes.

"Down, servants of the Devil! You are in the hands of the Church. Retro me Satanis, in nomine Patris…"

The crucifix was highly blessed. Lacroix could feel the power from it robbing him of the strength to move, to fight. He pressed himself back against the wall, eyes averted from the holy object. Seeing quite well in the dim lamplight, he swept his gaze over their opponents, counting at least seven (eight, if he counted the one on the floor curled sobbing over his fractured arm). Four were armed with crossbows, two with pikes, all pointed at himself and his son.

Their options began to unfold for him, dealing themselves out like cards through his quick tactician's mind as he assessed their chances. The room was too small to avoid all of them, one of the soldiers could easily get off a lucky crippling or even fatal shot from a crossbow. Outside, he knew, the sun was high overhead.

If they went quietly now, they would doubtless be taken to one of the Inquisition's cells and kept there to await being put to the Question. Once locked up, the mortals would think them safely caught and almost certainly give them room to make their escape. And with any luck at all, the sun would be down before either one of them was sent for.

Making his decision, he reached out and clutched Nicholas' trembling arm as the other vampire sank back onto the bed, hands over his ears, recoiling from the crucifix and the priest's prayers. Using all the strength of their newly refreshed connection, he sent a rapid message through their bond.

_*Nicholas. Stop fighting, mon fils. This place is too small: we cannot escape their weapons here, and the sun is up.*_ Nicholas tried to pull his arm from his grasp and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Lacroix' hands remained locked on his son's arm. _*Be calm. We will get away when they take us to whatever cell they think we'll not be able to escape from. Hide your nature from them, the room is too dark, they saw nothing sure. Let them think we are merely more fodder for the Inquisition.*_

Lacroix breathed a sigh of relief as Nicholas got hold of himself, lifting his head and glaring at the priest. One of the soldiers lit another lantern, his hands trembling, and the group of mortals stood staring at the two on the bed, crossbows cocked and aimed.

He gave his son a hard look, trying to gauge whether or not Nicholas had himself firmly under control. Then he glanced toward the open door and the shafts of sunlight gilding the outer hall. Summoning as much influence as he could muster under the circumstances, Lacroix spoke in a low, quiet voice to the priest.

"Our surrender…Father. We'll go quietly with you. Pray ask the soldiers to give us room." Slowly, he slid toward the edge of the bed, swung his legs to the floor and stood, aware that the soldiers were clutching their crossbows in white-knuckled grips, eyes all fixed on him now.

Avoiding looking directly at the priest and the large crucifix, he reached down for his cloak, dropped carelessly to the floor last night. Keenly aware of the crossbows and pikes the men held, he took a small step toward the armoire. One of the soldiers, his nerves on hair trigger edge, jabbed at him with his pike, catching him on the hip. He placed his hand over the small wound, so they wouldn't see it close and spoke to the priest, his head still averted.

"Allow us to dress first." The priest snorted, and motioned the soldiers back a few steps.

"Dress yourselves, then, and be quick. The Church is not in the habit of marching naked catamites or devil worshippers through the streets. You think to display your shame to all of Madrid? Cover yourselves, and pray for your miserable souls. Your punishment is at hand."

"Dress yourself Nicholas," Lacroix said, looking at the man who'd nicked him with the pike, memorizing his face. He could feel rage starting to surface, and quelled it.

_*Heavily*_, he added through their bond as Nicholas moved off the bed and went to the armoire to retrieve clothing.

Lacroix felt as stupid as he could ever remember feeling in his long, long life. Why had he allowed himself to ignore his instincts so?

He knew why. Because he had allowed himself to be careless, to be lazy and dismiss his common sense like any lovestruck adolescent, unwilling to risk Nicholas' anger and withdrawal when he learned that Lacroix had killed the ragpicker.

He knew the tiny house had become unsafe, that Madrid had become unsafe. He had seen the look on that miserable lice ridden beggar's face, had seen that the man understood they were no mere dilettante nobles slumming in the poor quarter. He should have risked a scorching from the sun, ordered Nicholas to stay and gone out to snap the ragpicker's neck. He and Nicholas should have been miles away from the tiny house by now, sheltering from the day in some remote loft or darkened cellar. He should have--

'Enough,' he admonished himself. Lacroix closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his facade of calm intact. It had been a small mistake, in reality, but the old soldier within him whispered in grim satisfaction that it only took one small mistake made at the wrong time. It was not a forgiving world.

The sun lay like a smothering hot blanket over his hooded cloak, making his skin crawl and feel scalded. Lacroix concentrated on the discomfort, seeking to distract himself from their predicament. Effectively blinded by the cloak hood pulled low over his face, the old vampire was navigating primarily by sound and touch. He could feel Nicholas close at his side, reaching for him along their bond, seeking reassurance.

The younger vampire, fearless in battle, was afraid to his very marrow of the terrible burning end that would be theirs if one of their captors took a notion to tear the hoods covering their heads away. Death by fire was something Nicholas had always feared to an inordinate extent, beyond what was normal and sensible for their kind. LaCroix had always meant to ask him about that. He hoped that he would still have the chance to do so someday.

Lacroix tried to limit the extent of the emotions Nicholas could glean from him through their mental bond, but he knew that more was getting through to his son than he wanted.

 

Through the bond with his sire Nicholas could sense intense rage, chagrin and something that turned him cold deep inside: fear. Lacroix wasn't sure they were going to escape this. His own terror of being burned alive loomed large in Nicholas' thoughts. The realization that his fearless master was also afraid loomed even larger.

The procession stopped and Nicholas found himself leaning against what felt like the wheel of a large wagon. Rough hands grabbed him, lifted him up and threw him into what he assumed was the back of the wagon. Nicholas landed on his chest, and grunted as Lacroix was tossed in on top of him, driving his chin into the floorboards. Fortunately his heavy hood protected him from having any splinters driven into his face. He felt the floor dip as more men climbed in with them.

Nicholas couldn't feel direct sunlight on his clothes anymore-a hesitant look from underneath the hood of his cloak confirmed that the back of the wagon was indeed enclosed. Doubtless to prevent passersby from accidentally recognizing certain prisoners, he mused. It was a boon for himself and his master, though: a few more minutes and he knew their skin would have begun to smoke and char, even through their heavy clothing. Gingerly, he lifted the edge of his hood just a tiny bit more, enough so that he could see some of what was happening.

Lacroix rolled himself off and away from Nicholas, then moved to get his feet under him. Nicholas heard him snarl as one of the men who had followed their roughly loaded cargo into the wagon rammed the blunt end of a pike into the juncture of Lacroix' neck and shoulder, knocking him back to the wagon floor.

"Stay down there, demon! Consider yourself lucky we don't chain you both to the back of the cart by your heels and drag you through the streets."

Lacroix muttered something crude in a voice too soft to reach any but Nicholas' ears--but stayed where he was. Nicholas pulled his hood back down, completely shutting off his sight once more and crawled over to lie alongside Lacroix. They remained quiet as the wagon jolted over the rough cobblestones.

 

The wagon rumbled to a stop. They were yanked out, hauled to their feet, and propelled up a set of stone stairs. The noise from the street was abruptly cut off as they heard a heavy door slam to behind them. Lacroix felt that the smothering mantle of sunlight was gone from his cloaked head and shoulders. He straightened, pulled his hood back and looked around. They were in a dark stone corridor, lit by torches. Before he could take in any more, he received a sharp blow to the small of his back, and gauntleted hands shoved him forward.

"Move, you two!" He heard Nicholas protest and turned to see one of the armored men rap the pommel of a dagger against the side of Nicholas' head. The blow would have dazed a mortal, and the soldier looked surprised when Nicholas merely ducked his head, cursed in pain and glared at him. The reluctant procession continued to make its way down one corridor, then another, and another as they proceeded into the heart of the vast structure.

The smell of smoke, human waste and burnt flesh was heavy in the air, all mingled with an overwhelming stench of terror. Lacroix felt the hairs on his neck rise. His acute hearing registered myriad noises of suffering, coming from all sides and below. Cries of agony mingled with sobs and an occasional scream. Somewhere in a cell nearby a man was laughing, stopping only to gasp for breath, a sound more chilling than any of the others.

The oppressive atmosphere had an even stronger effect on Nicholas, who pressed close to his side as they stopped before a large, iron-banded door. Lacroix did not like this development one bit; they had not been taken underground yet as he had expected them to be.

A soldier slid back the heavy well-oiled iron bolt on the door, and swung it open, grinning at them as one of the other soldiers entered the cell ahead of them.

"Your room, my lords. I hope it meets your standards." He reached out to take hold of Lacroix' heavy fur collar, leaning in toward him, voice guttural with anger.

"You crushed Stefan's arm, you motherless bastard. He's a good man. I will be there for your questioning, don't doubt that." Lacroix favored him with a look of bored contempt, pulled his cloak collar from the livid man's grasp, smoothed the rumpled fur and turned to saunter into the room.

The soldier, now behind him, gave him a savage push which sent him stumbling into the large cell. Lacroix staggered, trying to regain his balance, and his hand passed through a broad ray of sunlight pouring down through one of the cross-shaped windows set high in the wall. White-hot pain burst in his hand, radiating up his arm for one agonizing instant before he could pull his hand back out of the searing cross of sunlight. He gasped sharply as he did, unable to keep from uttering the one expression of pain.

Nicholas was close behind him, carefully avoiding the shaft of light. He gave Lacroix a quick look of concern as he saw his master cradling his hand to his chest, then turned to bestow an unloving look on the soldier who had propelled Lacroix in so abruptly. His eyes narrowed as he memorized the man's face, then he turned back to Lacroix.

The soldier who had entered ahead of them scuttled back, holding a clay pot and brush and giving them a wide berth. Dipping the brush in hastily, he began to daub a thick dark liquid on both sides of the door, plastering it over older dried layers of the same substance. The liquid, some kind of blood, had a fetid stench to it that immediately put both of the vampires on edge. Nauseated, they moved away from the reeking door. Not even to keep from starving would either of them have ever attempted to drink such foul stuff.

Like freshly caged wild animals, they cautiously began to move out into the cell, stepping carefully between the rays of light streaming down from the windows. They stopped and took stock of their surroundings.

There were two mortals in the cell with them, two men. One, filthy and wild-eyed, was chained to the wall with heavy iron manacles, and a heavier iron collar around his neck. The other was a mild looking man, small in stature, who sported a thin mustache. He wore clothing as expensively made as theirs, which was currently much the worse for wear.

The unchained man stepped forward into the light and addressed the two newcomers who were looking with distaste at the blood smeared by the door. In a mild, pleasant voice he said, nodding toward the reddish stains,

"The Blood of the Lamb, the Blood of our Lord. To repel evil."

The deranged looking man chained to the wall spoke to the silent pair.

"Come, sit with me, friend. I am Ario, and this" he nodded toward their other cellmate, "is Sancho. Tell me how you came to be among us."

It was unclear whether he was speaking to Lacroix or to Nicholas, and the two vampires exchanged glances and minute shrugs. Lacroix, not trusting his voice quite yet, walked slowly along one wall, rubbing his burnt hand gingerly and surveying their prison with a sinking heart. This place was not going to be easy to escape from, as he'd been confident it would be. Another mistake, and quite possibly his last.

Nicholas could feel the old vampire struggling to bring himself under control. The realization that Lacroix was still daunted by their situation had the unexpected effect of calming him as his own protective nature, never deeply buried, surged forth. He paced toward the chained man and said in a grim voice,

"They took us as we slept." He hesitated, glancing at Lacroix, then continued, "Said we were in league with the Devil."

Ario grinned, eyes rolling in glee. "And they offered up no evidence?"

Nicholas looked at him dispassionately, realizing that if the filthy, ragged man had been sane when he came to this place, he was entirely unhampered by sanity now. Just as well the man was chained, if he were violently mad. He didn't want to kill a man simply because he was not in his right mind. He stepped back to stand in front of Lacroix, placing himself between the mortals and his master. Ario continued, nodding,

"As it is with all their victims. The Inquisitors have put thousands to death in His name, to rid the world of evil."

Nicholas said nothing. He remained ranged protectively in front of Lacroix, waiting.

****

The agony in his hand had tapered off to a dull burn, and Lacroix began to pay attention to what was going on. Nicholas had placed himself between him and the mortals. The unnecessary protectiveness both touched and annoyed him. He could have broken both humans' necks in the space of time it would have taken either one of them to utter a cry for help. The fact that Nicholas was reading his emotions so easily brought home to him the extent of his loss of self-control. He straightened up and glared at the two humans. His voice was firm and cutting when he spoke, the words carefully enunciated.

"This God, and this Devil…" All eyes were on him now. Nicholas looked relieved. "They are a mere human contrivance and convenience. They are for the justification of slaughter without the tricky business of accountability."

It was said with more feeling than he'd been intending to inject into the statement. Lacroix truly did loathe the human propensity to avoid responsibility for their actions by justifying them through some lofty ideal, or some religious fairy tale like this offshoot cult of Judaism.

The unfettered prisoner, Sancho, stared at him in dismay as he listened to the heretical statement. His eyes left Lacroix and turned to Nicholas. Gesturing toward Nicholas, he spoke in a hesitant voice.

"You too are a nonbeliever?" Nicholas narrowed his eyes and looked contemptuous.

"If there is a God, he has not yet shown himself to me."

Lacroix laughed outright at Nicholas' statement, genuinely amused and delighted. _My son indeed_, he thought, forgetting their circumstances for a quick moment.

Nicholas shot him a look that was half-pleased, half-annoyed. It was rare for him to make comments concerning his mortal religion and he looked as if he already regretted his words a bit.

Sancho looked at Nicholas, then at his chuckling companion and shook his head. Voice stronger now, he implored them,

"For the sake of your souls, do not abandon your faith. Though there may be evil within you, there is God also." Lacroix stopped laughing and fixed a cold regard on the slender Spaniard who continued, oblivious. "You must believe this. It is all that will save you from the exorcism."

Ario yanked at his chains and spit in Sancho's direction, hissing like a snake before sneering to the other man,

"Will you still believe that when *we* are pronounced to be demons and must face the exorcism?" Nicholas exchanged worried glances with Lacroix, then drifted toward Ario, head cocked, studying the deranged man as he continued. "How will your faith save you when you are made to drink the Blood of the Lamb and your flesh is consigned to the fire?"

Lacroix watched Nicholas stop and look back at Sancho, who stood silent, arms hugging himself. Lacroix snorted and turned away from the fool. Of course he had no answer to Ario's question. Perhaps the chained man was mad, but he was also quite right. Pity he'd never have the chance to speak to Ario outside of this hellhole, it might have proved interesting.

Now, how were they going to escape this place? It would be roughly six or seven hours until nightfall, he estimated, consulting his senses. Once sunlight was no longer streaming through the cross-shaped windows he thought there was a good chance that between his strength and Nicholas' combined they could eventually break loose several of the stone blocks which formed the cross shaped opening; those blocks were only connected to the wall on two sides.

It would be even easier to break down the door, assuming they could stand being in such close proximity to the mix of holy water and lamb's blood for the time it would take the two enraged vampires to tear the door from its hinges. Breaking free in that way might prove easier, but escape would be much more risky.

True, the temptation to wreak as much carnage as he could on the way out was strong--but the likelihood of the priest being on hand with that accursed crucifix of his was strong as well. Someone of great faith had focused much of their power into the holy symbol. Lacroix was confident that the priest carrying it now wasn't the one to have done so. Without the crucifix in his hands, that priest would have found himself sharing the back hall of their small house with seven other corpses until darkness would have allowed the two vampires to dispose of the bodies and leave. Yes, Lacroix decided, escaping by the window was the best way. Better to come back at some later time and remove a few throats when he could choose the place and time himself.

Confidence partly restored and a plan in motion, he relaxed a bit and moved to stand close by Nicholas, leaning in so his voice was pitched to a level audible only to the younger vampire. Lips lightly brushing the other's ear, he murmured,

"Don't worry, mon coeur. We'll win free of here as soon as night falls. I see how we can escape."

His son nodded, and gave him a small relieved smile. Then Nicholas sighed, turned and retreated to a far corner as far away from the windows and the cell door as possible. He sat down, placing his back against the wall and closed his eyes. Lacroix eyed the two mortals carefully, in particular the unfettered Sancho, before moving to sit next to Nicholas. The two vampires sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning on each other for comfort, and settled themselves to wait.

****

Several hours passed. Both vampires became more and more restless as the time went by. The diffused sunlight was hurting their eyes, the poisonous reek from the blood-slathered doorway was making both of them ill, and above all the daytime imperative to rest, to sleep, was becoming more than an annoyance. Lacroix and Nicholas were strong enough not to need much daytime sleep, but they did need some, especially Nicholas. The vile stench and painful light made sleeping in the cell out of the question, though. They would just have to stand it until they could leave.

Wishing for anything to distract him from their situation, Lacroix rose in one smooth motion and turned his attention to their devout cellmate. Sancho was standing against the opposite wall, lost in his own misery, clutching a small rosary and silently moving his lips. Nicholas rose to follow as Lacroix drifted toward the despairing man, whose eyes widened a bit as he saw Lacroix approaching him, Nicholas close behind.

Like wolves circling a deer to gauge its weakness, they positioned themselves on either side of Sancho, almost touching him. It was purely instinctive on Nicholas' part, less so on Lacroix'--the mortal's fear was a calming influence on him, reminding him that they were far from helpless, even in this position. The sport of picking at Sancho's morale would help to distract him from their own predicament and allow him to vent some of his frustration. Lacroix leaned against the wall, settling himself comfortably a few inches away from the Spaniard. His bland expression was at odds with his tightly clasped hands, whose twitching betraying how tightly strung his nerves were at the moment.

"Tell me, Sancho. How does a man of such faith as yours come to be called a demon?"

Nicholas shot him a look, unsure as to why Lacroix was devoting this much attention to the doomed man. He knew that Lacroix vastly enjoyed confounding people with their own moral contradictions, but now hardly seemed the time for such play.

A bitter expression crossed Sancho's face as he stared down at his own clasped hands.

"I own valuable land near Barcelona that I refused to give to the Church." He raised his head and looked directly into Lacroix' pale amused eyes. "_That_ was my heresy." The betrayal he felt for the Church he'd been faithful to all his life was plain in his voice.

Lacroix inclined his head, brows furrowed in mock concern. His voice sympathetic, almost caressing, he drawled,

"Ah, yes. None greater, in the eyes of the Inquisitor." Turning, he gestured with a flourish toward their manacled cellmate. "And…Ario?"

Sancho looked at the grinning man, dark eyes troubled. "He is said to be marked by the Beast." At the words, Ario twisted toward them, eyes rolling. As if barely able to control his glee, he spoke slowly, drawing out the slurred words.

"I…am…no more a demon than you are, " the last being spoken directly to Lacroix, who laughed. He was beginning to like this mortal. Madness sometimes lent them an oddly sharp perception, and he was beginning to suspect that Ario sensed more about his and Nicholas' true natures than any of the other mortals here. Nodding at Ario, he purred,

"I quite agree." Smiling, he turned to Sancho and Nicholas, pale eyes dancing. "Why give glory to a devil other than yourself?"

The statement hung in the air. Sancho stared at him in disbelief. Nicholas looked thoughtful.

At that point the sound of the massive outer bolt being drawn back riveted their attention on the door, all four heads turning in unison. The door opened and two armored soldiers entered, followed by the priest and a warden. Lacroix squinted painfully through the shafts of sunlight at their visitors, his body tensed for battle.

The gray-haired priest swept them all with a look of contempt, crucifix clutched tightly in one hand. Lacroix simply ached to cross the room in an eyeblink and literally tear the expression off the man's face. His vampiric instincts rose, demanding violence, and he shoved them ruthlessly back down. Sancho looked at the group facing them and crossed himself, trembling. The priest pointed at Ario and snapped out to the soldiers,

"He is next. Bring him."

Ario crouched, whimpering in a paroxysm of terror as the armored men advanced on him. They unlocked his shackles and began to half-drag, half-propel him toward the door. As he was dragged toward the priest, Ario struggled weakly, having no effect on his captors. When he sagged to the floor they simply picked him up by his arms and legs and kept walking. Ario writhed in their grip, breath wheezing from his terror-constricted chest, and he began to yell in a desperate voice devoid of any remaining sanity.

"You have no power over him! He is the darkness and the light! Belial! Beelzebub, my father! Save me!"

They dragged the writhing man out, still shouting to Belial to save him. Nicholas looked disturbed, Sancho distraught. Lacroix' expression was grim as he watched their briefly-known acquaintance carried away to be tortured and burned alive. Then he turned and dismissed the man from his thoughts. A mortal lifetime of warfare and a thousand years of surviving alone had drilled that response into his bones past any unlearning. The man was gone, and that was the end of it.

Before he left, the warden pointed at Sancho and warned him,

"Make your peace with God. We will return for you." Sancho closed his eyes, fist to his mouth, and sagged against the wall.

Lacroix retreated with Nicholas to lean against the wall facing each other, barely a foot apart. He raised his eyes to meet Nicholas' and was met with an unexpected brief smile. Surprised, he smiled back and sent a quick surge of affection over their bond, his thoughts reaching out for a moment to caress and mingle with Nicholas' warm response. The fact that Nicholas was not seeking to blame him for any of this debacle touched him deeply. It also made the humiliation and unpleasantness of their situation that much keener, and made him that much more determined that he would get himself and his dearest child out of here alive.


	2. Burned By The Light

Sancho walked to the center of the cell and crouched in despair, mumbling into his clenched hands. Nicholas followed and stood a few feet away, watching the man. Lacroix ignored both of them and paced, his mind racing.

Ario would not occupy them for long with the Question; he had obviously decided that there was no sense in suffering when the end results would be the same whether he confessed or not. Inwardly LaCroix congratulated Ario for not allowing an idiotic religious ideal to keep him from claiming the quickest ending he could hope for. He would still be burned alive, to chase the devil from his body, but he would be spared the prior hours of agony that the Question inflicted on its victims to force a confession of devil worship from them.

All of this meant, though, that they had less time than he had hoped for. He had been counting on both of the mortals taking some time for the Inquisitors to wring confessions out of. Lacroix looked up at the cross-shaped window, brilliant sunlight streaming down through it, then at the blood smeared door frame. Their captors had, without being aware of it, made this cell proof against escape for all its occupants, at least during the daytime.

Well, Ario would not take up much time, but hopefully their remaining cellmate would provide the Inquisitors with more of a challenge.

The idiot's misplaced faith was annoying, but if he honestly believed that he would be damned if he denounced his God, then it would take a while to break him to a confession of worshipping the Devil.

If it came to it, Lacroix knew that being put to the Question was something that, while very unpleasant, he or Nicholas would recover from. Torn or broken, their limbs and joints would heal. Burns would take longer and require more blood, but they would heal as well. The trick would be in withstanding the pain well enough to keep their vampiric natures from emerging before nightfall. He was fairly sure he could manage it; he was not as confident that Nicholas could.

Well, he would simply ensure that when they came for one of them, he would be the one to go first. At least it would get him out of this damned reeking cell. If that proved to indeed be what happened, once darkness fell he would take immense pleasure in turning the tables on his tormentors.

The ancient vampire could feel fury rising in him again, snarling for attention, demanding to be expressed. Lacroix desperately wanted to rend something, preferably something living, but he fought down the urge to take his anger out on the feckless mortal sharing their cell. He was necessary to occupy their jailers with his suffering, to buy them time to remain unharmed until darkness fell and they could make their escape.

Nicholas had moved closer to the kneeling man. He watched silently for a few minutes, then gestured to catch Sancho's attention.

"Who do you pray for, friend?"

The mortal looked up into Nicholas' curious face, unshed tears in his dark eyes. His voice, when he responded, carried enough pain in it to capture even Lacroix' attention.

"Por mi familia. My family. If I die, my wife and children must be cared for." Nicholas' eyes softened at the selfless words, and the love the man so obviously bore for his family. Lacroix doused the flicker of sympathy he felt at the man's statement and hastened to cut him off before he could say more.

"And who will do that?" Sancho looked at him as the tall feral man stalked closer. "Your God?" The words were drenched in sarcasm and some deeper, older anger. "The same God that would allow your flesh to be incinerated?" Sancho swallowed, drew in a shuddering breath and said,

"It is not for me to question God."

Lacroix' eyes darkened at the mild words and he curled his upper lip, the anger now plain on his face and in his eyes. Voice cold, he sneered,

"Of course not. Because, once the question is asked, it must be answered."

Nicholas turned to look at Lacroix, aware that there was something here, some deep matter that he had been unaware of until now. Slowly, Sancho rose from his kneeling position to stand and face Lacroix, a terrier defying a lion.

"God," Sancho said, certainty ringing in his voice, "is in _all_ of us. Even you, though you serve the Devil."

Lacroix' eyes narrowed as the words left Sancho's mouth, and he saw Nicholas tense up in front of him, no doubt expecting Lacroix to do something swift and final to the unwisely outspoken mortal. Lacroix drew himself up to his full impressive height, face a study in fierce pride. His eyes radiated fury.

"I. Serve. _No one_," hissed Lacroix.

Sancho trembled, face pale, then lifted his chin and looked directly into the terrible eyes. His voice was quiet, but carried conviction.

"Then you have no purpose."

It was not the response either of the vampires expected. Bare moments away from flashing across the few feet of space separating them and ripping the condescending bastard's throat out, LaCroix paused. He admired courage, and had to grudgingly admit that the little Spaniard had courage; though evidently not much common sense to go with it--a combination his Nicholas had made him painfully familiar with during the last several hundred years. Restraining himself, he growled,

"Perhaps. But at least I do not deceive myself."

Nicholas, sensing his master's angry intent, moved away from Lacroix to stand close to Sancho. He looked at him curiously, waiting for him to speak again. Sancho stood the silent scrutiny for a few moments, then turned away to avoid meeting the predatory blue eyes. Mistaking Nicholas' intense gaze for the prelude to an attack, he murmured,

"Please.."

Nicholas blinked, surprised, then realized that the man had misinterpreted his intentions. Eager to put the man at ease, and also suddenly eager to keep him from saying anything that would anger Lacroix any further, he reached out and touched Sancho's sleeve.

"You have nothing to fear from me," he said, stressing the 'me' just a bit. Hopefully the man would register the meaning of his words and realize that he had deliberately not included his companion in the statement…Sancho's courage and devotion to his family had deeply moved the younger vampire. The idea of this brave, quiet man being tortured and burned alive merely for not wanting to give up his land to thieves hiding behind a mask of piety revolted him. A quick look at Lacroix confirmed that there would be no help from that quarter. His master's eyes, hard as flint, conveyed better than any words that he had no intention of helping anyone except himself and Nicholas. He looked back at Sancho, who was still watching him, distrust in his dark eyes.

"You?" Sancho firmed his grip on his rosary. "You who cannot walk in the daylight?" He gestured at the beams of sunlight coming through the windows. More alert than either of the vampires had realized, he had seen Lacroix recoil in pain from the touch of that light, had watched the two carefully avoid the luminous shafts of sunlight that slanted down through the darkness. He pressed on. "The lamb's blood and crosses repel you. Tell me that you are not an angel of the Devil!"

Nicholas, overcome by sudden guilt, looked helpless, unable to answer the question he still asked himself at times. Lacroix' honeyed voice broke the tense silence.

"Yes, Nicholas. Do tell." Nicholas' head turned and he glared at Lacroix, his inner turmoil forgotten again for the moment. Oh, of course Lacroix would think this was funny! His master--who was never plagued with guilt or shame over anything he did--never missed a chance to tweak Nicholas about it when he saw those faults appear in his son. Nicholas opened his mouth to say something tart in reply to Lacroix' jibe, then his head snapped around to look at the door, hearing footsteps approaching the door.

Lacroix fought down the urge to simply walk over and cuff some sense into his sentimental idiot-child. They were in danger of losing their lives, and Nicholas was becoming maudlin over an utter stranger. He made the cutting remark primarily to goad Nicholas into anger and therefore out of the black mood that the mortal's words seemed to be leading him toward. It was also partly made out of the frustration he felt at seeing Nicholas sliding into a guilt-ridden depression once again. The sooner this miserable psalm-spouting wretch was dragged off to his just reward for a lifetime of worshipping his God, the better.

As if summoned by his thoughts, he heard steps in the hall at the same time he saw Nicholas turn toward the door, eyes alert. Sancho looked from one to the other, confused, then his eyes widened as he heard the heavy bolt slide back. The massive door swung open, and the gray-haired priest entered, flanked by two armed soldiers, two more entering close behind them. His severe gaze swept over the three prisoners, then he pointed at Sancho.

"It is time," he said, motioning to two of the soldiers. They moved forward to take hold of Sancho, who stood frozen and unbelieving as they advanced on him. Nicholas put a hand on the doomed man's arm in a useless gesture of comfort. Lacroix looked at Sancho. A small wintry smile touched his mouth but did not reach his eyes and he purred,

"Enjoy."

With that he turned and walked away from the man, his attention now focused entirely on the priest and his henchmen. The soldiers continued to advance, and Sancho found his voice. He stretched out his hands to the priest in desperate appeal.

"Please. I beg you, Your Grace. Have mercy!"

The priest's face took on the slightly amused, rather bored expression of one who has heard the same heartfelt plea from hundreds of men and he intoned,

"Let mercy be the providence of God." His voice became harsher. "You will be exorcised, and your flesh will be put to the flame."

Lacroix noted with amusement that Sancho, who had been calling Nicholas a minion of the Devil not two minutes ago, was now turning to Nicholas for comfort, clutching at his arm.

The priest continued, his voice slightly gentler. "If you are the innocent you claim to be…" he glanced skyward, "God will take you into His Kingdom." His voice hardened once more and he fixed Sancho with a stern look. "That is something only a demon would fear." He barked at the two soldiers, who had paused in their advance, "Bring him!"

Fear finally overcame Sancho as the two men moved to take his arms, and he began to plead, backing away,

"No! Please, Your Grace!"

Ignoring him, the priest moved forward, crucifix outstretched to warn off the two remaining prisoners.

"Both of you, back!" He made a sweeping motion at them with the ornate cross, and the two moved away from him with gratifying speed, the taller one shielding his face with his arms. The soldiers took hold of Sancho and began to drag him toward the door. The terrified man finally began to struggle, shouting for help to any who might hear him, looking back at the man who had shown him sympathy.

"I am innocent! In the name of God, help me!" Unmoved, the two soldiers continued to drag him along. The priest stopped his advance and began to back toward the door, following the struggling trio.

Lacroix looked angrily at the priest. He could feel his muscles still twitching in reaction to the proximity of the crucifix. Ario had taken up even less of the Inquisitor's time than he had expected. He certainly hoped for better from this one, although by the way he was beginning to caterwaul…

"RELEASE HIM!"

The deep throated roar, vibrant with compulsion, came from his right. He turned disbelieving eyes toward his Nicholas, who strode forward, eyes blazing gold and his threatening fangs fully displayed. Lacroix could only stare dumfounded as his snarling son advanced on the four mortals.

The priest's eyes bulged, and he stumbled back. The two soldiers loosed their grips on their captive as they stared in horror at the unholy thing advancing on them. Sancho gaped in amazement at the fiery-eyed creature that had been a normal looking man only moments ago. Nicholas snarled, and they all took a step back, one of the soldiers fetching up against a wall.

His head spinning at what Nicholas had just done to them, Lacroix flailed around for something to say, some way to salvage this situation. He opened his mouth, for once entirely unaware of what was going to come out of it.

"Really, Nicholas. Such crass showmanship."

Lacroix was amazed at how calm and amused his voice sounded. Well, he supposed it was better than screaming, "Nicholas, you _idiot!_" He found himself watching Nicholas with unwilling pleasure as his son stalked forward, reveling in his vampire nature, a chilling smile on his lips. An idiot, no doubt, but he was magnificent when he displayed his true self like this.

Nicholas hissed at the humans, eyes glowing,

"I am the demon you seek." Nicholas spread his arms and grinned at the priest. "I am the Devil's servant. This man," he pointed at Sancho, "refused to join us. His faith has twisted his mind."

The priest looked at Nicholas, then at Sancho. He motioned to Sancho, his hands trembling but maintaining a death-grip on the crucifix.

"You may go. God be with you." He hastily sketched a blessing in the air toward Sancho, who shook his head, looked dazedly at the priest, then at Nicholas. Crossing himself, he took a few hesitant steps toward the door, then when the soldiers made no move to grab him, he ran.

The priest turned back to the yellow eyed demon and his tall silent companion, and gaped at them. One of the remaining soldiers picked up the pot of blood they had used to anoint the door and hurled it at Nicholas and Lacroix, who had moved to stand beside his son. The clay vessel sailed between them, both of them ducking gracefully to avoid being hit, and it shattered against the wall behind them, bathing the stone in a mixture of holy water and lamb's blood.

An overpowering reek struck Lacroix with the force of a physical blow as the scent of the sanctified blood roiled over him. The beast in him rose at the assault to his senses, and he let it, rejoicing in its release. Eyes blazing molten gold, fangs extended and bared, he straightened and snarled at the terrified humans. Nicholas had straightened beside him and was echoing his challenge with equal ferocity. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, a fearsome brace of inhuman predators, ready to rend to pieces any who dared to oppose them.

****

Father Salzillo was torn between terror and exaltation, as he beheld the unholy things raging in front of him. They began to move, seeking a way past the protection of his crucifix. Here, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was true evil. Here were Satan's creatures, snarling menace at him from the visages of beasts. With the eyes and teeth of wolves indeed, he realized, thinking of the rag seller.

Here, perhaps, was his own absolution for playing his part in conveying so many innocents to their deaths in order to please his masters and ensure his own wealth and safety. Surely God had sent these demons to him to offer him a chance to prove himself worthy of Heaven. Though every sense in his body told him to flee, he stood and reached out to grasp the arm of the soldier nearest him.

"Bring oil, and fire," he ordered the gaping, unmoving man. He shook him fiercely. The soldier tore his eyes away from the hellish pair and looked at Salzillo, eyes glazed with fear. Salzillo shook him again. "Go! Bring oil, and fire! Go, quickly!" The soldier ran.

Father Salzillo took a deep breath and thrust the crucifix toward the snarling demons, who flinched backward. He breathed a prayer of thanks to his father, Bishop Salzillo, for his gift of the jeweled crucifix. His father had given it to him when he had left the seminary for Madrid. It was a holy treasure blessed by the Pope in Rome years ago. Encouraged by the demons' retreat, he began to pray and advance on them.

"In the Lord's name, I condemn thee!"

Raging, Lacroix felt himself forced backward by the awful power in the crucifix, bolstered by the priest's chanting. Nicholas reached out and placed a hand on Lacroix' chest, his other hand seeking his master's arm. Lacroix covered the hand on his chest with his own as they retreated, struggling every step of the way to resist the blessed item's power.

Lacroix' control wavered and he felt his bond to Nicholas assert itself and reach out to connect with his son's mind, his own mounting pain and fear flooding across their connection to mingle with Nicholas'.

The priest continued to advance, a strange joy in his eyes, as he forced them back, snarling, into one of the far corners of the cell.

"The Devil's servant has no power over our Lord."

The words lashed them more cruelly than any whip, the poisonous aura of the crucifix driving them back until they were pressed into a corner, bodies flattened against the rough stone wall. Lacroix twisted and raged, his deadly nails scraping futilely across the filthy stone as his instincts took over, demanding he find some way to escape this torment.

Three of the soldiers re-entered the cell. One carried a bucket in one hand and a lit torch in the other. Another soldier took the torch from him and held it as he reluctantly came forward, eyes never leaving the raging creatures in the corner. The soldier holding the bucket began to splash the liquid in a wide arc around the trapped pair, and the scent of lamp oil cut through the foul miasma, reaching the two vampires who became riveted on his actions.

The soldier shied back, almost splashing himself and the priest with oil when Lacroix roared at him and cut a swath in the air with a clawed hand, coming perilously close to snagging him by the arm. Scrambling on hands and knees, the soldier flung himself behind the priest.

The soldier who held the torch swept it downward, almost grazing Lacroix with it before he could snatch his hand back. The man moved forward and dipped the torch down again, touching it to the puddle of oil. Lacroix felt Nicholas' choked protest and surge of terror as flames sprang up, moving quickly to surround them with a curtain of fire.

Father Salzillo was in an ecstasy of righteousness and religious fervor as he chanted an exorcism rite in Latin, holding the crucifix high so the damned things trapped behind the ring of flames could see it clearly. At bay, they snarled their protest, panicked eyes darting from the flames to Salzillo and back to the flames again. Like the beasts in human form they were, they turned in a frenzy, scratching at the walls without reason, nothing more than trapped animals before the power of the Almighty. They cringed away from the spreading flame, clutching at each other's arms, each cravenly seeking shelter behind the body of the other.

 

The fire crept toward them as the pool of oil began to spread out. Terrible heat was beginning to scorch their skin and clothing, and Lacroix heard Nicholas moan as a burning piece of straw landed on his neck, searing it before Lacroix could slap it away. He clutched Nicholas to him and attempted to maneuver himself in front of his child, offering him the only protection left that he could. Nicholas pulled at his arms and he realized that his son was attempting to swing himself in front of Lacroix, offering his sire what protection his own body could provide. The heat increased, and Lacroix could see his cloak beginning to smolder, the fur on its collar curling up and filling his nostrils with the stench of burned hair.

*_Lacroix, I'm burning…please, help me…_* The terrified plea came through their bond, not from Nicholas' singed lips, and Lacroix nearly screamed, his own helplessness to do anything to save them unbearable. He looked into Nicholas' face, then at the priest. Heat made the man's visage swim before his eyes. He then turned back and locked gazes with his son, firming his grip on the powerful arms. It was madness to face the power in the crucifix and in the priest's words, but it was also madness to stay where they were. He would have faced anything at that moment to get away from the flames and buy Nicholas and himself even one more minute of life. 'I refuse to let us end like this,' Lacroix thought, and spoke to his son through their blood bond.

*_Nicholas, we must go through the fire. We must try to fly. Are you with me, mon amour?_* Nicholas shot a despairing look through the towering flames at the priest, then returned his eyes to Lacroix', nodding.

*_Always. Go!_*

They exchanged swift looks of encouragement, then wrapped their arms tightly around each other and tucked their heads down. Lacroix swept his cloak over their heads, and they leaped, taking to the air.

For one moment, the flame surrounded them, roaring in their ears and licking at their clothing. Then they emerged, flying for the door. The priest shouted prayers in Latin as he backed away, thrusting the crucifix out toward the airborne bodies.

The aura of the crucifix brought them down, robbing them of the power of flight. They crashed to the ground, smoking. Staggering to his feet, Lacroix flung off his burning cloak and began beating out the areas of his clothing which had caught fire. Beside him, Nicholas was frantically doing the same, his eyes wild. Dimly, through the roaring sound of the flames, Lacroix heard the priest order one of the soldiers to give him a torch.

Satisfied his clothing was not going to burst into flames, Lacroix straightened up and swept a look around the cell. All of the soldiers had fled, or were fleeing, but the priest remained and he advanced on them, praying in Latin and holding the crucifix out to them.

Lacroix went to his knees, gasping at the power that emanated from the ornate crucifix, antithesis of his own life force. Power that vibrated in the priest's words and echoed through his head until he thought his skull might shatter. Words spoken in the language of his birth---stilted and mispronounced, but even so, more devastating to him because of it. Nicholas dropped to his knees beside Lacroix and groped for him, catching one hand and holding it in a painfully hard grip.

"Qui deum esse credunt, in nomine Deus, haec expellent illos daemones…"

The ringing voice continued, merciless. Lacroix struggled to rise, but his legs would not obey him. It was all he could do not to collapse to the floor. Nicholas' hand still gripped his, tight enough to grind the small bones in his hand together, but any pain he might have felt from that was drowned in the waves of agony beating him down to the floor. He could not see it, but he could feel the crucifix right above him, crushing him as surely as a massive boulder. Chanting rang through his head; splinters of hot glass tearing at his soul until he was near ready to throw himself back into the fire to escape the unbearable pain.

Opening his eyes, he looked to Nicholas and saw him writhing in torment, as weak as his master. His son moaned and held up one feeble hand as if to push the priest away from them somehow. Lacroix clenched his fist, driving his nails into his palm, near insane with rage at his futility. This mortal, this breakable morsel of flesh, was going to kill them both. In a few more moments he would be driven back into the flames, preferring to burn rather than stay to be shredded further by this priest and his weapons.

Nicholas hissed feebly up at the priest, still holding up a shaking hand above Lacroix' head, a futile resistance to the implacable man bearing down on them.

Salzillo grinned in fierce triumph as he forced the demons back. Writhing, they went; oh so slowly, but they were moving into the cleansing fire. Soon they would burn like torches in Hell, a small taste of what would now be their eternal lot. They would claim no more innocent souls, tempt no others to bow to the Devil. This was his absolution, his opportunity to even out God's ledger; all the innocent deaths to which he'd been party balanced out by the innocent lives the destruction of these two would save. How could he have ever doubted that God's mercy was truly infinite?

Beyond all thought or reason, Lacroix could bear it no longer, and he felt Nicholas reaching the end of his endurance as well. The fire was the only avenue of escape left from the awful words, the crushing power blazing forth from the cross.

The ancient vampire gathered the last of his strength, marshaling his vast and terrible pride. He had not yet made a sound, and he was determined to remain silent, even in the fire; he would not give this unworthy opponent the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain. He had failed them both, had betrayed his best loved child's trust in his ability to protect him, no matter what: had delivered him to a death he feared more than any other. Lacroix tightened his grip on Nicholas' hand.

"Nicholas, I'm so sorry. Forgive me."

"Lacroix" There was infinite feeling expressed in the single word. Nicholas reached out to touch his face, before turning toward the fire.

 

The priest cried out and fell backward, the crucifix tumbling from his hand to the floor as he dropped, unconscious.

Nicholas turned his head back from the flames, aware only that the soul-flaying prayers had stopped, that the force pushing him inexorably into the fire was suddenly gone. He looked up through a red haze, eyes half blinded from burst blood vessels.

Sancho stood a few feet away from him, shaking, looking down at the fallen priest. The warden's small wooden stool was clutched in one of his hands. Sancho looked at the stool, then at the priest, and dropped the stool, falling back a few steps. Nicholas looked at Lacroix who was still doubled over to the floor, chest heaving, eyes shut. He didn't know why, but Lacroix seemed to have been hurt more seriously than Nicholas had been, and looked to be only half-conscious. Afraid that his master might be permanently damaged in some way, he gently shook his shoulder, calling his name.

His master's head snapped up and glazed yellow eyes shone into Nicholas' without a hint of coherence in them. Lacroix snarled and scrambled to his feet, his actions pure instinct and fury. Hissing, he lunged for the only standing human in sight: Sancho, who stood swaying and exhausted not ten feet away.

 

Lacroix dimly felt himself being shaken and realized that the overwhelming din and agonizing pressure were gone. Beyond rational thought, he merely registered that an avenue of escape had somehow opened for him and his child, and he let instinct drive him toward it. His blood-hazed eyes registered a human standing between them and their escape and he moved to attack, closing the ground between them and grabbing his prey's shoulders in one smooth quicksilver motion.

As he bared his fangs to strike, two strong hands grabbed him by his own shoulders and pulled him away from the mortal. He wheeled in a flash and began to strike for his new opponent, then pulled up short as he recognized his bondmate.

 

Nicholas leaped to intercept his master before he could pull Sancho into a killing embrace, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him back. Lacroix turned on him, and Nicholas braced himself for the attack, but the old vampire paused in mid-strike. Nicholas saw sanity flood back into the golden eyes, and felt dizzy with relief. He eased his grip on Lacroix' shoulders and looked earnestly into his face.

"Lacroix, no! He saved us." Lacroix pulled away, and Nicholas saw events falling into place in the pale eyes as Lacroix fully registered what had happened.

 

Nicholas' words penetrated the blood rage controlling him and called him back to himself. Lacroix looked into Nicholas' imploring face, then at the swaying human, who was still looking down at the fallen priest. The fragmented pieces of what had just transpired formed themselves into a whole, and the elder vampire cringed as he realized that Nicholas was right. He owed his life and his son's life to a mortal. *This* mortal.

Sancho had accomplished what he could not, had saved their lives. It was a bitter draught to swallow, but Lacroix had to admit it. He moved behind the slender man and looked over his head into Nicholas' eyes, not trusting himself to look directly into the mortal's face.

 

Nicholas caught the glare that his master was directing at him over Sancho's head. Anger and urgency were foremost in the pale eyes, and beneath that Nicholas could see deeply wounded pride. Dismayed, he realized that his master would not get over this quickly, and wished he could say something to ease Lacroix' spirit. His master was not going to be easy to live with after this, probably for quite some time.

Sancho put a hand out to touch Nicholas' chest, and looked up at him. His voice was thick with emotion as he spoke.

"You were the hand of God. He spared me through you." He hesitated, looking into eyes that shifted from gold to deep blue as he watched, then continued. "I don't understand what you are. But there is God in you."

Nicholas' eyes narrowed as he listened, intent. He ignored the furious expression coming over Lacroix' face as his elder hovered behind Sancho. A hint of sharp eyetooth peeped out as Lacroix' upper lip began to curl up into a snarl.

Sancho continued. "There _is_ God in you. Your actions were proof of that." Something flared in Lacroix' eyes and Nicholas flinched as his master dipped his head sharply down, killing fangs less than an inch away from the side of Sancho's throat. Lacroix hissed fiercely into the startled Sancho's ear.

"His actions suited his needs, and _nothing_ more!"

Sancho remained very still, unspeaking, his eyes wide. Lacroix straightened up and backed away from him abruptly. He turned and walked briskly toward the door, back stiff, and snapped back over his shoulder harshly,

"Come, Nicholas!"

His link to his master was closed off tight. Nicholas, for once, realized when to obey. He moved after Lacroix, but first reached out to take Sancho's arms in a gentle grip. Eyes shining, he locked gazes with Sancho, trying to convey the depth of his gratitude for what the man had done for them, for him.

"Thank you," he said simply, unable to think of anything adequate to let this man know what he had given him. Sancho gave him a weary smile, and nodded, saying,

"Go now. Go in peace."

Nicholas turned to his seething master and followed him out into the corridor.

Behind them, Sancho looked down at the priest's body. The fallen clergyman lay unmoving on the filthy floor, one outstretched hand almost touching the jeweled crucifix. He crossed himself, and ran from the cell.

He did not stop until he reached the ostlery where his horse was stabled. Before night fell he was miles away from the city gates, on the road to Barcelona.

****  
Lacroix stopped halfway down the corridor and waited for Nicholas to catch up to him. He took a long, slow breath and tried to suppress his whirling emotions. They were not safe yet, not by a long way.

He desperately needed a few moments to collect his thoughts and reason out what they should do. This entire debacle was something he fervently wished to be done with, so he could somehow try and forget that it ever happened. But for him to be hasty and make yet a third fatal mistake in one day was unthinkable.

His first urge, to move to the nearest exit from the building, might not be the wisest thing, he realized. It was still daylight out, and would be for several more hours. Their cloaks were useless, burned scraps littering the hall outside their cell. The soldiers who had panicked and run away would be returning at any moment to find the fallen priest and raise an alarm.

Nicholas pulled at his arm, eyes imploring him to move. Lacroix could sense that his high-strung child was fast approaching his limit. His son had held up well so far. Now that the mortal was safely away, though, Nicholas was no longer distracted from their own predicament. It was no surprise for Lacroix to feel the younger vampire becoming nearly frantic with the need to get out of this place.

Lacroix took a deep breath, and took Nicholas' hand from his arm. He trapped it in both of his and looked intently into the stressed, exhausted blue eyes.

"We can't leave yet, mon fils." He squeezed Nicholas' hand as his son's eyes widened, incredulous, and his mouth opened. Lacroix shook him lightly, cutting off the protest before it began. "It's daylight outside, we have no protection against it. The agents of the Inquisition will be hunting for us. We may not be able to evade them during the day." He hesitated and tilted his head up, listening, then tightened his grip on Nicholas' hand. "They would never expect us to remain here. If we go underground, we should be able to find some unused cell or corridor to hide in. There may even be passages to other buildings. We will stay below for the day, and leave after night falls. The guards will have grown complacent by then, I expect. If we do need to leave by the way we came in, I would like to make a certain…impression on our way out."

For a moment he thought that Nicholas was going to simply turn and flee for the exit, forcing Lacroix to chase him down and drag him underground by force. His son swallowed, took a shaky breath and nodded, conceding the argument.

Lacroix spared a quick moment to slip his arm around Nicholas' shoulders. He closed his eyes and pressed his face for a moment into the tumbled blond mane, inhaling the faint scent of his son's hair underneath the smoky reek that overlaid it. Then he turned and began to walk down the long hallway, his senses pitched to their highest levels. Calmer now, Nicholas paced behind him, a silent shadow at his back with eyes of yellow foxfire.

They moved like wraiths down long, twisting dark corridors. Listening, all senses hair-trigger alert, the two stalked carefully along. Their keen hearing detected approaching humans long before they were actually in sight, and by the time the passing mortals actually reached them they had already slipped through a doorway or flattened themselves into a dark niche.

Lacroix strained to catch some hint, a sensation or perhaps a draft of air carrying a scent, that would lead them to the building's cellars and possible underground passages. At last he caught it, a hint of dank, cool stone and old sour earth, and smiled in triumph. Finally. This place was a maze, but the old vampire was not worried in the least about retracing his steps if he needed to when the time came for them to leave.

A faint shout floated down the corridor, immediately followed by several more. The priest had been discovered in their empty cell. Lacroix turned his head back toward the noise, lips pulling back from his fangs in a silent snarl. The pale phosphorescence in his eyes flared red-gold for a moment, then he turned back to Nicholas. His son looked back at him, his own eyes smoldering like banked coals.

"Come, Nicholas. Later, I promise. For now, we go to ground and stay there until the sun dies. This way." Following his instincts, Lacroix led his son into the dark bowels of the vast structure, to the head of a narrow stairway leading down.

The journey underground was not without its moments. It was down here that the Inquisitors plied the most repulsive aspects of their trade, shut off from any windows or other portals to the outside. There were many more people down here, and for a while they played a tense one-sided game of hide and seek with the unsuspecting jailers and wardens who were going about their rounds of misery.

Vampires who were concentrating solely on not being seen rarely were, however, and they passed through the many rooms of pain undetected.

Subdued by what was going on around them, for once the pervasive scent of blood held little attraction for either of them. Even Lacroix, certainly no stranger to the art of cruelty, found himself taken aback at some of the things they saw. Face grim, he kept an iron grip on Nicholas, both by the arm and through their bond. He clearly read his son's impulse to somehow try and stop what was going on around them. Using their link, he kept a close watch on Nicholas' thoughts, apprehensive that his woefully softhearted child might choose this as another moment to put on a performance commensurate with the one he had played in the cell earlier.

Lacroix did not feel any urge to stop what was going on, but as he made his way through the chambers, observing, the cold distaste he carried in his heart for humankind and their ways distilled and hardened just a little bit more.

And this was something Nicholas still regretted leaving behind, the old vampire mused, his membership in the brotherhood of humanity. For his own part, Lacroix was perhaps never more satisfied to know that he was not human anymore. At least he and his kind killed to survive, and one at a time. This was simply a waste, and nothing more.

They passed through the occupied area and turned into a corridor that was cluttered with chunks of debris, old fragments of human bone, and several collapsed portions of the ceiling. Evidently the structural integrity of this portion of the old cellars and passageways was unsafe enough to have caused it to be abandoned. It was as welcome as nightfall to Lacroix, though, and he quickly led Nicholas down the abandoned passage.

It was too close to the torture pits for comfort; he could still smell the stench of blood and seared flesh, and he heard Nicholas growl as a bright, sharp shriek of pain echoed down the hallway. But in this case, they were beggars, not choosers, and Lacroix felt sure that this was the best place for them to stay. None of their pursuers were likely to imagine that an escaped pair of prisoners would descend into the Inquisition's torture chambers and hide there voluntarily. They would search for them above and in the streets outside, not down here.

They came to an open doorway, its wooden door, dark with age, half sprung from its hinges. Cautious as a wolf inspecting a deadfall trap, Lacroix paused in the doorway's opening, head cocked and listening. He heard nothing, no heartbeats, no rustle of movement. The two vampires moved into the abandoned room, eyes adjusting quickly to see in the faint glimmers of light reflected down the corridor outside.

Water had seeped through a crack in one of the walls and formed a small pool in one corner. Nicholas squatted down beside the pool, tearing a piece from his shirt and wetting it in the gritty water. Lacroix circled the room, looking for the driest area.

Finding it, he lowered himself to sit tailor-fashion and began to ruefully explore the smarting areas of seared skin on his face and neck with his fingertips. He hissed lightly as he came to a deep burn above his collarbone, and left off with his self-inspection. The burns were painful, but nothing that a good meal this evening wouldn't remedy. Nicholas carefully lowered himself to sit next to Lacroix and submitted patiently to a similar inspection from his master as the elder vampire satisfied himself that his son was no worse off than he was. Scorched, but nothing really damaging.

Sighing, Lacroix took his hands away from Nicholas' face and folded them carefully in his lap. Now they simply had to wait.

Almost hesitantly, Nicholas reached out to Lacroix and began to dab at his face with the soaked rag, his touch gentle, washing away some of the ash and dried blood sweat. Lacroix allowed it, closing his eyes with a sigh. The pool had looked silty enough for him to know that this was probably making his face dirtier, but the cool touch of water on his skin felt good.

Opening his eyes, he reached out, took the rag from Nicholas and began to swab some of the soot away from his son's face. Nicholas' gaze caught his eye. His hand faltered for a moment, then he resumed stroking Nicholas' face with the rag, staring into the reflective blue eyes.

Lacroix wanted to speak but he did not quite know what he wanted to say. His level gaze bright with emotion, Nicholas looked as if he too wished to say something but was also unable to find the words. They sat in silence and studied each other.

Both of them had seen the other's imminent death back in the reeking cell. It was perhaps rank cowardice, but Lacroix admitted to himself that in one small, selfish corner of his mind he had been glad to think they would perish together. He had been alone for far too long before finding Nicholas; the young Crusader filled a void in his spirit none of his other children or companions ever had. If Nicholas were to be destroyed now…

Afraid to follow that train of thought any further, Lacroix shifted his gaze and broke the trancelike stare. He kept his connection to his son carefully closed, ignoring Nicholas' bewilderment at his doing so. It was too much, he could not bear to let Nicholas read any deeper into his soul than he already had today.

The cloth dropped from Lacroix' hand, unnoticed. The elder vampire closed his eyes again and sought to turn his attention inward. Reaction to all that had occurred was finally catching up with him, and he folded his arms to hide his hands when he realized they were shaking.

So much had happened since the last sundown. Had it really been just the previous night that he and Nicholas had been strolling along, intently debating the merits of a violinist they had heard perform earlier that evening? Halting their discussion when they heard the drunken hooting and catcalls of the intoxicated band of cavaliers and smiling at each other, hungry and golden-eyed before slowly turning to face their unexpected bounty? When he had still been quite confident in his own ability to keep himself and his child from any danger?

The unaccustomed taste of humiliation rose uneasily in his throat and sat there, burning. So many mistakes he'd made this day. Ignoring the danger of a mortal who had become aware of their true nature, and leaving him alive. Being so sure that any cell the mortals locked them up in would be easily escaped from. Allowing them to be brought into the headquarters of the Inquisition to be nearly destroyed by one lone priest. And the last, least bearable thing of all; not only had he been helpless to save them, but they had been saved by a mortal. A mortal who LaCroix had mocked and dismissed.

Yes, Nicholas' little show had intensified their danger and made it more immediate, but blaming him for being a sentimental idiot over certain mortals was like railing at a stream for flowing downhill. By now he should expect things like that from his son. Were it not for his own bad judgment, they would never have been here in the first place.

"Lacroix."

Nicholas' voice broke in on his bitter reverie, and he opened ice blue eyes to look his son in the face, wary. Was this where Nicholas was going to begin blaming him outright for what had happened to them? Nicholas took one of Lacroix' hands, picked up the damp rag from where Lacroix had let it fall and began to carefully stroke his hand with it. He looked up into his sire's guarded eyes.

"Lacroix, what happened--we really didn't have any choice, you know. We had to go with them. Those soldiers would have filled us with crossbow bolts until we looked like hedgehogs. They would have had us for sure, then. It was a string of bad luck that you couldn't have foreseen."

Lacroix snorted and half-turned his face away from his protege, not believing that Nicholas was being this perceptive or this understanding.

"I do not believe in luck, Nicholas, good or bad."

"I do." Lacroix turned his head to peer intently at Nicholas, searching for any hint of mockery. Nicholas gave him a tired grin, and said, "We're here, aren't we?"

The tension in Lacroix' chest loosened, and he shook his head, smiling.

"Yes. We are still here." As he spoke the words he realized how thankful he was that they were true, and he reached out to draw Nicholas into his arms. Nicholas slid his arms around his neck, kissed him briefly on the mouth and then buried his face in Lacroix' neck.

The old vampire moved to bring his son in against him, embracing him, suddenly needing the close contact badly. Nicholas shifted, turned and got comfortable, positioning himself much as he had the previous night on the roof, his back against his master's stomach. He pulled the other man's arms around him like he would a warm coat, laid his head back against the broad chest and was still.

For a while they sat in silence, then Nicholas spoke, his voice faint.

"Lacroix. Are we…are we damned?" At the noise of disgust Lacroix made deep in his throat, Nicholas lifted his head and hastened to explain. "No, Lacroix, I'm serious. If we're not damned, if we're not evil by our very nature, then why do things like that crucifix hurt us so?"

Lacroix sighed. He really didn't feel like discussing this right now. Later, maybe, at a fine inn over a game of chess, both of them sated from a good hunt…but not right now. He realized that Nicholas truly needed an answer, though. He'd pulled away and was facing Lacroix, waiting for him to speak. The old vampire reached down to pick up the damp, filthy rag and examined it idly as he spoke.

"Nicholas, I do not know why those things affect us the way they do, but I suspect it has far more to do with the--energy, or magic if you will, of mortals' belief in them." He shifted to look into Nicholas' face. Nicholas was watching him intently, listening, his expression puzzled.

Lacroix continued. "There is no such thing as good or evil. They are simply names and nothing more. What is considered good or evil depends entirely upon which side of the sword or the plate you happen to be on. I imagine that a sheep considers a human to be quite evil, and I'm sure that the unfortunate heathens in the East who encountered your Church-sanctioned Crusaders thought you were all evil incarnate.

Who was evil in our cell, Nicholas? That priest, who would have piously sent an innocent man to a terrible death so that the Church could own a few more acres of land, or the angel of the Devil who imperiled his own life, and mine, I might add, so that he might be spared? There is _far_ more to it, Nicholas, than the idea that we are simply evil and therefore repulsed by symbols of good."

Nicholas nodded and looked thoughtful, as well as chagrined at the reminder that he had put his sire as well as himself in danger when he tried to help Sancho. Lacroix touched his chin, and Nicholas looked up into his eyes again. In a gentler tone, Lacroix continued,

"It was you who inspired that overly trusting mortal to return and help us. If it were not for your words, he would never have returned as he did. Of course," he eyed Nicholas for an instant, and Nicholas tensed, looking guilty again, " it would have considerably helped the situation if you had kept yourself…to yourself, mon fils. I would truly appreciate some warning before you do anything that asinine again. It was a mistake to leave the man alive, but--" he added hastily as Nicholas' eyes met his, "I concede your point about that. I consider our debt to him paid, however."

He shrugged. "Small matter, we are leaving this garbage strewn Spanish midden as soon as we quit this hellhole." Lacroix hesitated, then added, "You did well today, amant."

He smiled affectionately at Nicholas. His son returned the smile, looking relieved, and moved to nestle against him, arranging himself to sleep. A fresh series of shrieks broke out nearby and Nicholas flinched.

"Lacroix, I'm sorry. I cannot listen to this all day. It's just too sad. Please, can't we leave now?"

Lacroix lightly pressed his son's head to him with one long pale hand, stroking the golden hair as he did.

"Shh, Nicholas. You don't have to lie here and listen to it. Sleep. I'll stay awake and keep watch. Such things don't bother me any more."

He drew Nicholas in close against his chest, settled his back against the clammy stone wall and cradled the other vampire in his lap, blond head tucked under his chin. Then he gently exerted his command over his exhausted son's psyche, coaxing him into the healing rest his body sorely needed.

Nicholas fell asleep within moments, his breath a cool even whisper across Lacroix' hand. His ancient sire stared into the shadows, chin resting on the sleeping Nicholas' head and spoke quietly.

"Though I confess, at times I wish they still did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Leslie GS for kind comments and encouragement and to Rienna for her skilled beta help. Special thanks and honey stix to Illinois Jules, my cheering section and author of the SoB Slant, which came in *very* useful! And, very special thanks to April Hackett, Beta Babe Supreme for all her invaluable help and hard work.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Leslie GS for kind comments and encouragement and to Rienna for her skilled beta help. Special thanks and honey stix to Illinois Jules, my cheering section and author of the SoB Slant, which was very useful! And, very special thanks to April Hackett, Beta Babe Supreme for all her invaluable help and hard work.


End file.
